Fortunes not according to the book
by Phoenike
Summary: "Duncan is dead. He is not a danger to you, my dear." She smiled bitterly. "So you say, Alistair. But dead men have a certain advantage. You cannot fight them. Therefore, they always win."
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: In this story,__ the "official" report about how Duncan recruited Alistair (google it, apparently I can't add a link here) is just post-coronation Chantry propaganda. Here's what Alistair might say about it in my AU:_

_"Before we killed the Archdemon and saved their hides, Fereldens thought that we serve Orlais__, and who did most of the hatemongering? The Chantry. Why would they have helped Duncan to find a conscript from among the templars? They despised_ _him and the Wardens. The Grand Cleric would have disbanded us if she could. A tournament with Duncan in it would probably have involved tying him up and throwing him to rabid wolves in front of an audience. And the Grand Cleric would have been passing the popped corn."_

* * *

When winter still held the Frostback Mountains tight in its grip, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden came to Redcliffe during his travels, seeking for recruits.

It was the time of the annual winter fair, and the town was packed with people. Hoping that the hubbub would lessen the interest in his presence, the Warden-Commander arrived in Redcliffe unannounced, only to find that his reputation had preceeded him, and that many doors had been closed before he came. King Maric had reinstated the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, but most folks still held the age-old suspicions. Their commander being a foreigner did not help; where people knew his background, they treated him as an Orlesian spy, and where they did not, they went by his dark looks and thought he worked for Rivain. As usual, the Warden-Commander found himself approaching the lower reaches of humanity first - prisons, alienages, back alleys.

After scouring Redcliffe for potential, Duncan visited his friend Arl Eamon, whose household had only its hospitality to offer to his cause. Next day he took to the road again and came to the local monastery, which was famous for its templar training, and where the Master of Arms was a known Warden sympathizer. Unfortunately the Revered Mother was no friend to the Wardens. But she could not deny the Master of Arms from entertaining a guest if he so pleased.

Early the next morning after his night-time arrival, Duncan was already at the chantry's training grounds, seeking for talent to add to his still pitifully small force of elite warriors.

Wrapped in a thick fur cloak against the chilly air, Duncan climbed the stairs to a wooden platform at the yard's edge. He exchanged greetings with the Master of Arms, who was overseeing the templar novices' daily martial training. The yard was full of young men yelling as they charged against each other, sword clashing into shield, mail clinking and steel-clad feet scuffling on hardened, frosty dirt. The familiar stink of sweat, leather and male ego greeted the Warden-Commander like an old friend.

In the middle of a sentence Duncan heard a reverberating crash of laminated wood against metal and turned to look at a heavily armored novice, who had just slammed his shield into an unlucky opponent and sent him to the ground. Without pause the novice wheeled around and blocked a clumsy swing from another trainee, who lost his grip on the blunted training sword and backed away cursing and holding his hand.

The man was strong. And fast. The Master of Arms was setting him up against two opponents at a time, and he made quick work of them, either knocking them down or disarming them with as few moves as possible.

Duncan's seasoned eye caught many mistakes. The novice relied far too much on knowing his opponents, and his own fighting style was too clean. His bold stance and textbook swordplay would get him killed within seconds against a couple of hurlocks. But Duncan also saw that the man would learn out of his bad habits fast. Maybe even in one real fight. He had the makings of a great warrior in him.

"Ah, the tall fellow?" the Master of Arms said when Duncan asked, and scratched his jaw. "Name's Alistair, my lord. And nothing more. Eamon's bastard son, or so they say, and who am I to doubt it? He's obviously some nobleman's whelp, and it was the Arl of Redcliffe who sent him here, over ten years ago."

Eamon's son? The arl was one of the men Duncan counted among his friends in Ferelden, yet the Warden-Commander had never heard him speak of an illegitimate child.

Duncan crossed his arms and stroked his beard while he thought. He noticed how, after striking his partner to the ground, the novice always reached his gauntleted hand to help them up, even when said partner looked more likely to spit on his hand than take it. Before a match, he greeted his opponents with a bow and a thud of his sword against his shield. His polite manner seemed almost quaint compared to his training companions, who barely bothered to nod before charging at each other. Duncan knew that many templars came from among the younger sons of landed gentry, and they were infamous for their bad manners.

"Is he on lyrium yet?"

"What? No, my lord. He's older than most novices, but hasn't taken his vows yet. Senior novices practice taking tiny amounts, but not enough to addict. Not before initiation."

The after-effects of a lyrium addiction were not the most advantageous quality in a man who was going to have to live with the group mind.

"He's a good lad. You want a word with him, my lord?"

"Yes."

The Master of Arms whistled. "Hey! Alistair! Come over for a moment."

The novice disengaged from the fray and walked toward them, sheathing his sword and slinging the shield on his back with practiced ease as he climbed the wooden stairs to the platform. He walked like a warrior, not like a common soldier. As he came closer, Duncan saw that he was almost a palm's width taller than Duncan himself.

The Master of Arms made the introductions, and the novice bowed. "My lord." His voice was slightly out of breath and muffled by the great helm which completely hid his face. Under the plate armor, his chest was still heaving from the exertion.

"Alistair, is it?"

"At your service, my lord. Oh, blight it." The young man reached for the buckles of his helm and removed it. Sweat was running down his temples and dripping from the tip of his nose. He literally steamed in the winter cold. The Master of Arms handed him a linen rag and a bucket of water and he wiped his face and took a swig from the bucket before turning back to Duncan. "Ahh, that's better."

The man was extraordinarily handsome. His short hair, apparently a reddish blonde color, was now dark with sweat and sticking any which way. His face was still flushed from the exercise. He had hazel brown eyes, a short stubble of a beard and strong, clear features which, Duncan had to admit, seemed to confirm the rumors of his noble paternity. But try as he might, Duncan could not recognize any resemblance to the Arl of Redcliffe.

"My lord..?"

Duncan realised he had been lost in his thoughts for a moment too long.

"The Warden-Commander seeks recruits for the Grey Wardens," the Master of Arms said.

Alistair straightened up. His whole countenance brightened. It was not a reaction Duncan was accustomed to when the Grey Wardens were mentioned. He was more used to blank, alarmed or suspicious stares, or outright hostility.

"You will make a fine templar one day, Alistair," Duncan said, and saw light disappear from the hazel eyes.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Have you been long in training?"

"Eleven years, my lord. From when I was ten."

"And when will you be initiated?"

"Well, the Grand Cleric says it must happen soon, my lord."

"Have you seen real battle?"

"Not yet, my lord."

What was wrong with this man? His face carried no expression whatsoever. It was like his soul had been sucked out. Duncan was almost starting to doubt his instinct. A very particular strength of character was necessary for anyone to survive the Joining. It was the reason why Duncan couldn't just conscript any decent fighter he encountered; most men - or women - would never survive the Joining. Did this man have what it would take, after all?

But that look of hope he had seen in those eyes for a moment... He would have to think about this.

"I shouldn't have interrupted. I will leave you to your training, now."

"Yes, my lord."

Alistair turned to put his helm back on. Before Duncan turned away, he thought he saw an expression come and go on the young warrior's face. It was gone too fast to be certain, but for a moment he was sure it had been despair.


	2. Chapter 1b

The week-long fair in Redcliffe traditionally ended in winter games, where many templars competed. It was by far the most widely known event west of Lake Calenhad, an area which otherwise elicited little interest in outsiders. The main event of the games was a tournament, which was overseen by the Grand Cleric, and warriors came from near and far to pursue the prize, which this year was ten sovereigns and a shield donated by Queen Anora herself. The true prize was of course the fame of becoming a champion, which carried many benefits for professional fighters who often owned nothing but their battle gear.

Noble birth was not required to participate. Anyone with a decent set of arms and armor was allowed to enter into the roster. At supper, Duncan asked the Master of Arms if any novices would take part.

"No rules forbid them from fighting," the Master of Arms said. "But 'tis Chantry policy that only certain templars are allowed to appear in public. Meaning, ones that the Grand Cleric finds suitable."

"What of Alistair? Surely he's competing at least?"

"Alistair... Well, he's eager enough, I know that much. But he's not exactly a favorite, so he's never going to get permission."

Duncan was surprised, and said as much. "He would best many of the finest warriors I've known."

The Master of Arms waved his hand. "The supervisors don't appreciate his... character. You didn't wonder why he's still a novice? It's not just 'cause he's putting it off himself, which he is. They say he's a bad influence. Don't ask why. Sure, the lad has an odd sense of humor but to me, he's always been respectful enough."

After the meal, Duncan tried to concentrate on other things, but his mind kept returning to Alistair. He was not sure why the young man bothered him so. He had long ago learned to trust his instinct, but now it was not speaking in one voice, but two; one telling that Alistair would make a fine Warden, another that not all was as it seemed.

After nightfall, Duncan retired to his guestroom in a restless state of mind. He remained awake for several hours more, re-reading letters, honing his dar'misu, leafing through a a copy of Brother Florian's _Flame and Scale_ he'd found in the chantry library. Finally he ran out of excuses to avoid the bed.

Sleep did not come easily, and when it did, his dreams were as bad as he'd feared.

She was flying above a burned village, her great wings cutting through black smoke like a scream. In her shadow, malformed creatures were crawling out of their underground dens. And as he watched, he sensed that she was watching him back, that the half-sentient, malicious will was reaching toward him, languidly like a sleeper reaches for her lover. _You belong with us,_ it murmured, not in a human tongue, but in wordless hive thought which he had lately started to understand. _You belong with me. And with me, you will find your place..._

Duncan woke up shaking and drenched in cold sweat, surrounded by the pitch-black darkness that precedes the first light of morning.

_Not yet! Not when there's so much to be done..._

He needed more men.

Duncan washed up with water from a basin that had been set in the corner. The winter cold was so bitter that the water had a thin crusting of ice on it. Even after living in Ferelden for years, Duncan still detested its frigid winters. The bright and balmy summers were pleasant enough, but always after autumn, he felt slightly homesick for the the milder climates of Free Marches and Orlais.

Duncan broke his fast in the common room, maintaining his distance from the chantry residents who kept stealing glances in his direction and talking in hushed voices. By and by, two templars -- one young and one much older -- stepped in with their company, and the room was suddenly full of noise and servants moving about. Guessing that the strangers were guests invited to the tournament, Duncan finished up and headed for a side door, preferring to avoid a confrontation.

In the doorway, he almost walked into a tall, broad-shouldered fellow who had chosen the same moment to enter the common room.

"Excuse me --" he started and then realised it was Alistair.

Alistair was wearing standard templar novice garb: a padded woollen surcoat and a simple purple tabard over it, breeches and tall boots. Yet somehow he didn't look much smaller in these plain clothes than he had in full plate the day before. His red-blonde hair was clean and carefully combed this time, and he had a neat air about him. He reminded Duncan of someone, but Duncan couldn't put his finger on who that was.

For a second, Alistair stared down at Duncan from barely a hand's length. Then he stepped back and bowed.

"My lord."

Duncan inclined his head. For a second he wondered what Alistair was doing out of the novice quarters, and then realised that he was probably given some leeway due to his age, and perhaps also his birth, rumors of which were apparently well known. "Alistair. I take it you are well this morning?"

"Yes, yes!" Alistair seemed happy, but for what? That Duncan had remembered his name? "And you, my lord?"

"Well enough. I --" Duncan's words were cut short by an incredulous voice from the room behind.

"Andraste's flaming garters. Al? I can't believe my eyes. Still here?"

Alistair looked at something behind Duncan, and his back stiffened. "Morgan," he said, his voice and expression suddenly gone flat.

"That's _Ser_ Morgan to you, thank you very much."

Duncan turned around and saw one of the recently arrived templars – the younger one, to be more exact – walking toward them. The man was about the same age as Alistair, and almost as big, if somewhat thicker around the middle. His clothes were a bit too lavish for a man in service of the Chantry, and his long hair and moustache were so fair as to be almost white. He carried what looked like a permanently annoyed expression on his face, and now the sentiment was fully directed at the tall novice standing next to Duncan.

"Still not out of that finery, Al? I guess the Grand Cleric hasn't forgiven you for that frog incident. Feeling sorry, yet? You poor sod."

"Sorry? For the frog, maybe," Alistair said mildly. "For myself, why? They make excellent cheese here."

"I suppose you won't be fighting in the tournament, then?"

"I suppose I won't."

"Too bad. It would have been nice to feed you some good Fereldan dirt."

"Like so many times before?"

Morgan's neck stiffened in a way that told Duncan he hadn't actually bested Alistair often in training. "Unlike some would-be templars, I have actually already used my training for something useful. I think you would find me quite hard to defeat these days." Morgan turned toward Duncan. "Pray tell, who is your friend?"

"Here," Alistair gestured at Duncan, "is the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, leader of the Grey Wardens. Forgive my rude manners, my lord. This is a former training companion of mine, Ser Morgan of Lowreach."

Ser Morgan managed a stiff bow. Duncan did not budge.

"Grey Wardens, hmm? Commander. And Al... Next year same time, same place? As I see that you're going nowhere." Ser Morgan laughed and turned away.

After the templar had returned to his companions, Duncan turned back to Alistair.

"What did you do to him?"

"I'm not quite sure. Perhaps I recited him some of my poems. I've turned more friends into enemies that way than I care to remember."

Duncan raised an eyebrow at the unexpected joke. "Those poems had to have a very sharp edge, should they have made such an impression on him."

"Oh, yes, my lord, Ser Morgan was downright scarred by my art. You should have seen it. He kept running away, and I followed him around, shouting line after line of yambic pentameter... They had to revive him with a potion."

The odd, self-deprecating humor was so unexpected, it made Duncan like the young man even more. Again he thought that this could be it, that despite his youth and inexperience, Alistair might be suitable. If only there was a way to be sure...

Perhaps there was.

"Alistair, I will leave you to your meal now, but can I have a word with you later?"

The sudden desperate eagerness in the novice's expression made Duncan feel almost guilty. "It is early. I have time before the morning call."

"Good. Let us meet in the scriptorium, then, when you have eaten."

The scriptorium was a silent and calm place, where the sisters worked on endlessly copying precious manuscripts in the shadow of tall bookcases. Duncan found an unoccupied out-of-the-way desk and settled to write one of his many pending letters. He had encountered – and dispatched -- some darkspawn on the way to Redcliffe, far from their usual territory, and needed to send word. The danger was spreading, and King Cailan seemed more interested in dallying with his Orlesian relations than taking Duncan's warnings seriously.

Either Alistair was a light eater, or very fast, for before Duncan was done with his letter, he had arrived. The Warden asked the novice to wait until he finished, and he did, fidgeting and pretending to examine the tomes on the shelves around them.

Finally Duncan threw some sand on his letter, shook it off and folded the paper neatly into his side pocket. He stood up and gestured Alistair to accompany him at a window which overlooked the monastery's kitchen garden, now a dead place of grey shrubs sticking from white-brown earth.

No use beating around the bush. "Would you like to fight in the tournament?" Duncan asked.

Alistair's face registered first disappointment, then intrigue. "The tournament? You want to talk about that, my lord? Sure but... what does it matter? I'm not allowed to enter."

"I can get you there," Duncan said, "I just need to know whether you want it."

A ghost of a smile appeared on Alistair's lips. "Do you need to ask? It would throw the whole place into fits. It would be glorious."

"But do you want it for yourself?"

"Of course. I don't often get to fight real opponents."

"Then it is settled."

Alistair frowned. "But how will you make it happen, my lord? No one will ever allow me to fight."

"Simple. I will enter myself in the roster and then call you to fight for me."

Alistair's eyes widened. "I can't do that! It would be... Well, you know. Embarrassing for you? Only... erm... indisposed individuals are supposed to do that."

Yes, Duncan thought. Ones who have been challenged but are to cowardly or weak to fight for themselves.

"Do not worry about me. My reputation is such that I do not have much to lose. Surely you know of it."

"Well... Yes. I've read some of the stuff the've written." Alistair seemed a bit embarrassed. Duncan wondered which of the obnoxious pamphlets he had read. That old one, where Duncan was accused of consorting with the Orlesians too closely? Or those which, in loving detail, accused him of various unnatural vices? For a man who was leading a remarkably chaste and ascetic life, Duncan certainly had interesting tastes, were those pieces of high literature to be believed.

"The tracts written by the Chantry? They make for amusing reading."

Alistair blushed a little. It looked quite becoming on him. "I know they aren't true! Arl Eamon --" he didn't finish.

"Arl Eamon what?"

Alistair cleared his throat. "The Arl of Redcliffe spoke highly of you, my lord. He's a good man. He wouldn't praise anyone without reason, I know that."

"I see." If the Arl was still visiting Alistair, it could mean there was something to that rumor about Alistair being his son, after all.

"I will make the arrangements. Be ready to fight when the time comes. I haven't asked, but I think that the Master of Arms will go along with my plan. If your equipment is not good enough, I will provide it myself. I have a good sword and I'm sure that the Redcliffe smith has something in the way of decent shields and armor. Preferably something that doesn't encumber you like full plate. Like, say, a set of splint mail."

Alistair seemed bewildered. "But... why?"

Duncan frowned. "You need a reason? The Master of Arms said you want this, and I am in the position to give it to you."

"No one has ever done me a favor without wanting something in return," Alistair said. "Usually something that ends up with me in a long confinement, without food."

"Well, there are going to be repercussions. It is understandable if you refuse. I won't force you to do anything you don't want."

Alistair looked out of the window. Through the thick bubbly panes of glass, the wintery garden seemed like a thing out of the fade, twisted and dreamlike in the grey morning light.

"No one usually cares what I want, either," he said in a quiet voice. "For that reason, among others, I will take you up on your offer, commander. I don't know if it's the most foolish thing I've ever done, or the wisest... But I will do it. I will fight for you in the tournament."


	3. Chapter 2a

_This tournament thing, which I originally didn't even have in the story, took on a life of its own, and I wrote 5K words about it. It delays the slash part of the story, but it was fun to write. Hope you're not all terribly disappointed. Second part of Chapter 2 follows as soon as I get it edited._

_BTW, I don't have a beta. I'm not a native speaker and betaing this might be too big of a job to ask of anyone... So all possible mistakes are my own.  
_

* * *

"You must be out of your mind, Warden!"

A nasty, cold southerly wind whipped dry snow across the tournament field. The colourful banners above snapped and moaned. Duncan cast an imperious look at the Grand Cleric, who had jumped up in outrage, out of the warm clutch of her fur-swathed chair.

Overlooked by craggy red hills and the Redcliffe castle beyond, the tourney field was currently made use of by jesters and minstrels. Nobles occupied the best galleries against the middle field, keeping themselves warm with furs, mulled wine and hot stones; they had a good view to the area behind the lists, where the fighters waited for the melee to begin. Commoners were lined on simple tiered benches next to the nobles. They huddled together in their warmest clothes and bought small comforts from vendors, who were advertising pork pies, warm beer and broadside ballads about the most distinguished combatants. The poorest members of the audience -- servants, peasants, elves and the occasional dwarf -- had to brave the cold at the farthest ends of the field, sitting on whatever stools or boxes they had brought for themselves. From afar, enthusiastic barking of dogs could be heard. Mabaris had been competed against each other on the spot the day before.

The dozen or so most honored guests were seated right next to the fighter's area, quite comfortable on their canopied gallery, warmed by coal braziers below.

"Eamon, what is the meaning of this?" Arlessa Isolde tugged at her husband's cloak, her Orlesian accent heavy, as always when she was upset. "What does he mean, Eamon, Alistair will fight? Alistair cannot fight, can he?"

"I'm not sure I heard you right, Duncan," Bann Teagan said. "You are going to withdraw and... let Alistair compete for you?"

"My words exactly," Duncan said and bowed to the direction of the Arl's family.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Teagan muttered.

"You were planning for this all along!" The Grand Cleric was still standing, although she was starting to shiver in her elaborate raiments. "Alistair is not permitted to fight! He hasn't even taken his vows yet. He is not fit to represent the Chantry -- how could he, when he's a disgrace to the whole establishment!"

The venerable Arl Eamon afforded the Grand Cleric a look one could give to a cockroach on one's plate.

"He will not represent the Chantry, your grace," Duncan said. "He will represent me. I saw to it that he is not wearing templar uniform. There is no rule that forbids him from fighting for me, as a civilian."

"Well, he is not a civilian, he is under my custody and _I_ forbid it!"

Bann Teagan coughed. "Actually, your grace, you cannot."

"I --" The Grand Cleric looked ready to explode, but obviously realised that the Bann was right. Nothing could prevent Duncan from walking over her in this matter. "I will not forget this humiliation, Warden," she hissed and settled back into her seat and furs, making Duncan wonder if she had given up so easily without the cold wind biting at her aging bones.

The Arl shook his head, looking deeply worried for some reason. Perhaps it bothered him to see his son enter such a dangerous competition? "I did wonder why you entered the lists, Duncan," he said. "You aren't the type to seek such frivolous entertainment. I know now your immediate reason, yet your ultimate purpose still eludes me."

Duncan inclined his head in acknowledgement, but offered no explanation. "My reasons are my own, my lord. Ladies and gentlemen, if you will excuse me -- since Alistair does not have a squire, I shall serve as his attendant."

Duncan headed for the ladder which would take him behind the lists. The nobles behind him burst into talking. "What a farce," he heard the Grand Cleric announce with a disgusted turn of voice.

Down where the fighters were bickering about the delay, Alistair paced to and fro. He was wearing a set of splintmail with a long, quilted red surcoat on top, and wielded a simple but serviceable infantry shield and Duncan's sword. In his hands, he was holding his helmet and a red length of cloth. He was looking eager, if somewhat discomposed, but when Duncan stepped over to him, he stopped pacing and bowed.

"My lord. I hope I shall not embarrass you."

"You won't," Duncan said. "And enough of this formality. You shall call me Duncan."

"Yes, my lord," Alistair said and bowed again.

Well, the novice could hardly be faulted for his less than placid state of mind. A tournament was not that far from a battle -- entering either for the first time could be a daunting experience. People died in tournaments, that was part of their attraction. Fighters were badly injured, even maimed for life. The winners became heroes, at least for the moment. Duncan just hoped that Alistair would master his nerves quickly when the fighting started.

"Follow your instincts, remember what I told you about choosing who to fight, and you'll do fine," Duncan said.

Alistair stretched his shoulders and grimaced. "Maker's breath, I spent two hours at this thing, and it still chafes. The fortune you spent on this might have included a better fitting, one should think."

"Let me take a look," Duncan said.

Alistair removed his surcoat, and Duncan checked the many buckles of his new splint mail. He tightening one strap here, loosened another there. In addition to being bigger than most, Alistair had wider shoulders and lacked the belly that Fereldan soldiers tended to grow by their endless guzzling of ale. As a result, the standard-sized armor didn't fit him all that well.

"That's... better," Alistair marvelled when Duncan was done. He moved his arms about and twisted left and right from his waist. "If you didn't already have a job, you could get a nice position as the squire for someone important. Say, a templar."

"I suppose templar trainees are mostly used to wearing plate," Duncan said. He took the red sign cloth that Alistair was holding and tied it around the novice's arm. "Grey Wardens tend to prefer lighter types of armor, for mobility."

"Do they? Oh, well. I guess it's nice to not feel like a tin can for a change. I'll just have to remember that I will now feel it, when someone starts to jump on me as I lie on the ground."

"Better to stay on your feet, then, hmm?"

"Yes, that's --"

Alistair did not finish his sentence, for the great horns were finally sounded to call the fighters to the melee.

"Well, this is it, then," Alistair said, put on his helmet and tightened its straps. The grin he threw at Duncan was downright fetching. "Wish me luck, commander!"

As Duncan watched Alistair jump over the lists and jog away to take his place at the field, he realised that the younger man had never before really smiled in his presence.

* * *

The event that followed would never have been graced by the name of tournament by Orlesians. In Orlais, tournaments were elaborate affairs with horses and jousting, based on delicate rules of chivalry rather than martial prowess. In Ferelden, however, a tournament was basically a big, rowdy free-for-all sword fight, which culminated in single combat between the dozen or so left standing at the end.

The fighters were randomly assigned to each end of the field. A templar representative appointed by Knight-Commander Glavin addressed them about honor and courage, and how anyone who used his weapon intentionally to maim or kill would be strictly punished. After what amounted to a somewhat shorter speech than normally, a silence fell across the field. The Grand Cleric stood up in the gallery of honor, raised her hand and let it fall. Horns were sounded. The warriors drew their weapons and charged, with great yelling.

The crowd exploded into noise and many jumped up in excitement. People came to see the fight, but they also came to bet. A lot of profit was made by taxing the gamblers.

The rules were simple. Combat had to happen face to face, with a sword or mace; sneaking, magic and other sorts of trickery were not allowed. A defeated fighter had to give his or her sign cloth – the red piece of fabric tied around the arm – to the opponent. The contestants who collected the most cloth proceeded to fight each other in single combat later. Defeated fighters had to hand over all the cloth under their belt to the winner. To prevent anyone from just waiting until the end and then picking out whoever had been successful, resting too long was forbidden. One was allowed to leave the field for a while, and everyone did, but just waiting and letting others fight would get one disqualified.

Almost immediately after the sides had engaged, Duncan lost sight of Alistair. There were over two hundred men and women on the field, and the whole affair could take an hour or more. Duncan had told Alistair to choose who seemed like the easiest opponents, first; to avoid the big ones and conserve his strength. At the end, his youth would yield an advantage, as the older and more experienced fighters would be getting tired.

At first, everything was just a big, confused mass of armored warriors either taking on whoever they encountered, or trying to navigate the fray for someone suitable. No rules dictated how to pick an opponent. Presented with a challenge, one had to fight. But nothing prevented participants from agreeing beforehand not to fight each other, and tactics were a big part of the whole deal. In this Alistair was at a disadvantage, as he had no connections, and was an uknown who the more experienced men were likely to challenge because they thought he was an easy target.

Servants and squires thronged against the lists, and shouted encouragement to their masters. Duncan finally caught sight of Alistair engaged with someone in a fine chainmail outfit; the novice already had a length of red cloth beneath his belt.

Men and women were starting to return behind the lists, in understandably bad frame of mind. Gradually the tournament field grew less crowded. Combatants were forming pairs across the available space. The fighting grew less disorganized and also more interesting, as the worst lot had been removed.

The chainmail wearing fighter left the field without his sign cloth. The melee went on, with a great noise of warcries, metal hitting against metal, feet pummeling the frozen ground, and the audience – noble and commoner alike -- yelling advice and berating their fallen favorites. Duncan saw Alistair fight a couple of other matches. The novice greeted his opponents with the same gravity Duncan had seen before at the training grounds. After winning, he withdrew and headed for the fighter's area. He still had the red fabric around his arm, and now several pieces of cloth were hanging from his belt.

"It's... different than I thought," he panted when Duncan offered him water. "They fight so... differently. Everyone. At training, it's almost always the same."

"Perhaps you should pick out templars," Duncan suggested. "You know how they fight."

"Oh, it's all right. Maybe they just had bad luck with the lists this year... It isn't as bad as I expected."

Duncan raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing, and Alistair soon returned to the fray.

As Alistair kept capturing victory signs, the way he was regarded by the others changed. They no longer challenged him summarily. The most experienced ones actually started to avoid him, trying to get him to wear himself out against the middle rank.

It was getting crowded behind the lists, and less and less so on the field. The ground beneath the fighter's feet was turning into grey-brown mush, half pulverized ice, half dirt. As time passed, Alistair relied less on his training mannerisms. Even though his opponents generally got better, his matches weren't getting longer. He was learning quickly, just as Duncan had expected. It actually looked like he was starting to enjoy himself.

Then, against what looked like an outcast chasind mercenary not nearly his match, Alistair made a mistake with his footing and staggered, and the chasind nicked him in the arm with his ugly diamond-shaped mace. For a moment it looked like Alistair would fall, and the chasind stepped forward to pommel him down. But Alistair was not quite as helpless as it seemed; he ducked and slammed his shield into the man's side, following up with a solid kick that sent the chasind sprawling in the grey slush.

After taking the red cloth from his opponent, Alistair again returned to Duncan for some water and a breather.

"That one got me in the shoulder," he said. Duncan saw the spot where the chasind warrior's mace had shredded through the quilted surcoat and into the mail below.

"The man acted on purpose. You could have called for a referee."

"Ahh, I didn't know it was that bad. Never mind. I don't think he wounded me." Alistair sidestepped as Duncan tried to take a look at his arm. "I have to go back."

The rest of the melee went uneventfully on Alistair's part. Some fighters were disqualified, others injured badly enough to be forced to quit. The remaining ones now picked very carefully who they challenged. Most of them knew each other well enough to know who they stood the best chances against. Some even engaged in a lazy mock fight that wasn't intended to stop, waiting for the end call.

There were about twenty fighters left when the horns were sounded. The red cloth was collected and counted and the winners announced. Alistair took seventh place, a great position for a beginner, let alone someone competing for the first time. As a mark of his achievement, he received a golden chain from Knight-Commander Glavin's representative, and then it was over. The audience was already starting to leave their seats and head for the warm tents and bonfires below, where food and drink were served before the second part of the tournament – the single combat – would begin.


	4. Chapter 2b

"I think the bastard nicked me a bit, after all," Alistair said to Duncan after they had stepped into one of the pavilions appointed to the winners of the melee. Braziers had been set up in the big tents, and inside it was nice and warm, if also a bit dim, cramped and stinky. Most of the finalists were established fighters who hired retinues of several people to take care of their needs in a tournament, and those retinues took up a lot of space and made a lot of noise. Alistair was the only one around with only one person for company.

Duncan helped the novice out of his surcoat, splintmail hauberk and the thick dog-hair shirt beneath. His linen under tunic was torn where the chasind's mace had connected, and clotting blood crusted his sleeve from shoulder to elbow.

Alistair sat down. "Wow," he exclaimed, staring at his arm. "Just... Look at that."

"I'm going to get a healer," Duncan said.

"No, no! It's just a scratch. I'm all right. Save the healers for anyone who really needs them. I saw some bad things happen, out on that field."

Duncan conceded and just fetched bandages and hot water from a sister outside. When he returned, Alistair was already munching on a chicken leg and drinking weak ale from a tray that had been set on a bench in front of him, apparently by a busy elf servant who flitted to and fro in the pavilion, carrying food and drink for the contestants.

Duncan made the novice take off his baldrick and shirt and set to washing and bandaging his wound.

"I didnt' feel anything," Alistair said. "It only started to hurt after the fighting stopped."

"The battle compells us too strongly to notice such things." Duncan fastened the bandages and turned to inspect Alistair's collection of fresh, ugly bruises.

Alistair mumbled something around the pork pie he was stuffing his face with. Well, at least his appetite suggested that a little blood loss wasn't going to slow him down. He certainly looked like a man who could survive a beating or two.

"My, my, you are a nice little cock," a husky, heavily Antivan female voice said from nearby. Alistair got some pie stuck in his throat and coughed violently, growing red in the face.

"W-what?" he wheezed finally, and stood up to face a buxom warrior. The woman was surrounded by two retainers who were busy sewing her into an elaborate, foreign-looking gambeson. Her thick black hair was tightly braided around her not at all unpleasant face. Alistair wiped grease from his jaw.

"I say, you are a fine looking young rooster." The woman smirked and let her green eyes travel down from Alistair's face. Her smile widened as she took in his heavy arms and chest, covered by scant copper hair. The inquisitive gaze travelled down his midsection and lingered for a moment even lower. Alistair had grown so red that Duncan was afraid he would faint on the spot.

"Nice. My name, it is Ser Ophelia," she said. "You come to the feast after, hmm? I will discuss some matters with you. Battle always makes me hungry for... conversation."

Somehow Alistair managed to bark out his name. "Well met, Ser. I – err. I'm not sure I'm coming. Am I, Duncan?"

The green eyes shifted to the Warden-Commander, who bowed to the Antivan. Duncan had heard of Ser Ophelia. Most of the talk had been of her battle prowess, perhaps surprisingly, since it did not seem her only quality worthy of a rumor. She was said to be one of the finest blades this side of the Waking Sea. Women in Antiva were generally not allowed to learn the ways of combat, so there had to be more to her story, but not much else was known.

As Duncan chose to keep his silence, the woman turned back to Alistair.

"Oh, so coy, little warrior. When I kick your ass into the nasty hard ground, it is only polite to... check after, that no damage has happened. I will make a thorough check, do not worry. Meet me at the feast and I shall make it worth your while. But most unfortunately, our time now is limited. Luck be to you." She nodded and sauntered off, and the two retainers tried to follow without messing up the cords of her gambeson. "Oh, yes. Such a nice ass it is," she could be heard saying, as she turned to look over her shoulder at Alistair's backside.

Alistair fell back on the bench. "Could I... could I get my shirt, by any chance? I feel... naked, all of a sudden. Dunno why that is. Maybe because I have so few clothes on?"

Duncan handed over the tunic and dog-hair shirt, and Alistair donned them quickly. His face was still burning. He fell back to his food, if looking somewhat more thoughtful than before. "I didn't even remember that they are arranging a feast. I can't attend, can I, commander?"

It sounded almost like plea. But Duncan did not answer.

* * *

Noon brought an even harder wind, and sparse snow began to fly across the landscape from the heavy sky. A bleaker and colder winter tournament day none could remember.

After returning to their seats from the bonfires and warmed tents, no one wanted to tarry with the formalities. Knight-Commander Glavin's representative quickly announced the finalists, most of whom needed no introduction. Ser Ophelia was there, gathering snowflakes on her beautiful Antivan armor, as was fair-bearded Ser Morgan whom Duncan remembered meeting earlier. A varied amount of cheering rose from the crowd at the contestants' names. To Duncan's surprise, there was quite a lot of yelling and foot-stomping for Alistair. He realised that the novice must have caught the gamblers' eye.

The rules for the single combat were more complicated than for the melee, but not much. There were no more challenges. If a fight took too long, judges would decide on the winner. Very short matches were expected today, as the air grew colder and colder and the judges appointed by the Grand Cleric shivered in their seats despite their heavy fur cloaks.

Three matches were fought before it was Alistair's turn. His first opponent was barbarian warrior. She was a huge thing, taller than him. The big two-hander she wielded seemed to weigh nothing in her hands. When she charged, her warcry was loud enough to shake the snow from the canopies. Alistair retreated as fast as he could before the mountain of muscle and steel, and blocked huge swings that sent splinters of wood flying around from his shield.

After she had driven him right across to the lists without receiving one attempt at a counterattack, she stopped and laughed. "That's it, boy! Flee! I will make a necklace of your balls!"

Alistair straightened and twisted a crick out of his neck. "Right," he said and attacked. Two shield bashes and a lot of shouting later, the woman was kneeling on the ground, holding a broken wrist instead of the greatsword and spitting curses at him.

It was decided that the wrist was an accident.

"I haven't crossed swords with women before," an embarrassed Alistair explained to Duncan at the fighter's area. "I tried to avoid them in the melee as much as I could. Threw me at first. I'll get over it."

A few bouts later Alistair was called to the field again. This was to be his first defeat. After what was considered enough unresolved swordplay, judges were called on to decide the winner, and the decision went against him.

In his third match, he faced Ser Morgan, who wore full templar plate, and wielded a shield and sword like him.

Ser Morgan was even less gracious than Alistair's first opponent. "Darkspawn take you for all I care," was all that he said as the former training partners regarded each other across the field. Custom dictated that he had to greet his opponent, and he bowed stiffly before charging.

Alistair waited for Ser Morgan where he stood. He met the templar's sword with his own and employed the same trick Duncan had seem him use against the chasind who wounded him; he ducked and swung his shield into the templar, who staggered like a great tree being felled. Immediately Alistair bashed into Ser Morgan again, his full weight behind his shield, and the other man stumbled backwards. Before Alistair could deliver a final blow with the flat of his sword, however, Ser Morgan had regained his stance and was able to counter the maneuver, if only barely.

Ser Morgan was not a bad swordsman, but it was obvious that Alistair knew his tricks through and through. The judges weren't needed. After barely a minute, Ser Morgan was lying on his back in the grey snow, with wind knocked out of his lungs, sword and shield lying whichever way, and the crowd cheered for the other man.

Alistair extended his hand to the templar. "Thank you for the fight, Ser Morgan," he said.

"Get away from me!" Ser Morgan scrambled to his feet. "Filthy whoreson! Remember what I once said? You can take the vows, but you will never be one of us. Your life in the order will be a living hell, that much I can promise!"

Alistair's face went hard for a second, then he grinned. "No, all I recall being said is that you intended to lick my bottom in this fight. Or was it kick? I can't remember."

The audience laughed. Ser Morgan spat at Alistair's feet and stormed away, collecting his gear as he went.

Back behind the lists, Alistair shrugged at Duncan's questioning look. "He must really, really hate poetry."

The fights were starting to take their toll on the contestants. Alistair won another battle by judging, but then he was set against the yet undefeated Ser Ophelia, who wielded two lovely curving sabres and laughed as she fought. It was clear from the start that the novice was badly outmatched. Duncan knew that the Antivan could have ended the match whenever she wished, but the woman chose to amuse herself, to embroider the air with her weapons and occasionally almost brush against Alistair as she danced around him and his attempts at a counterattack.

Finally, when the judges were about to end the uneven fight, Ser Ophelia feinted and kicked and down Alistair went, on his back in the muck.

Ser Ophelia sheathed her swords, stepped forward and stood over the novice who just lay where he was, breathing heavy and holding his midriff.

"Owwww," Alistair moaned. "That was... mean."

Ser Ophelia laughed heartily. "Best in this backwater village, you may be, little warrior. But there is a lot you must learn about real ways of combat. Perhaps I teach you later, hmm..?"

She extended her hand and helped Alistair up. The novice smiled at her sheepishly. "If that's how girls fight, I'm no longer sorry that somebody said that about me once."

Ser Ophelia laughed again, obviously approving of the jest. "Come sit at my table at the feast, my fine young rooster. What a fine discussion we have!"

"My lady..." And then Alistair completely lost his composure when Ser Ophelia slapped him firmly on the bottom, sending the audience into roars of laughter.

An older male warrior putting his hands on a young female one would have been disqualified. But there were no rules the other way around, and when Alistair got back to the fighter's area, he seemed hardly scandalized.

"I don't know whether to run away or not," he said to Duncan. "She's going to laugh at me, and I don't mean the good kind of laugh, either. I mean the kind that will have the entire chantry point and snicker at me for a week."

Duncan realised that Alistair had no clue how attractive he was.

There were no female templars, in training at least, and any kind of intercourse between templar novitiates and the younger sisters was strictly forbidden. The servants at the monastery had all been old. Ser Ophelia could very well be the first sexually interesting and available woman Alistair had encountered during his adult life. And the novice didn't seem like the type who would swing the other way, and court his male companions when there were no women around.

The tournament was nearing its end. Alistair won one more match, but only because the other man – an older templar from Highever – was exhausted and no longer sure in his footing. Alistair could pretend to miss an opening once, but twice would have embarrassed his opponent. The novice seemed almost apologetic as the templar bowed to him after the fight and left the field.

After that, Alistair was well and truly beaten by Ser Kalvin of Denerim.

"I was starting to fear I would have to fight Ser Ophelia again," he said after returning to where Duncan waited. "Maker, I don't think I've ever been this exhausted! I could eat a mabari. And after that, sleep for a week."

Duncan turned to look at the field, where the final battle was being prepared, and at the gallery of honor beyond. "I'm afraid the day is not yet over, Alistair," he said.

"Well, there is one more match left --" Alistair glanced behind him, where Sir Kalvin of Denerim and Ser Ophelia of Antiva City were just greeting each other.

"That is not what I was referring to," Duncan said. "But all will be settled soon enough."

Alistair gave the Grey Warden a rather odd look, but didn't press the matter.

Am I right? Duncan wondered. _Is it wrong to take someone so young? He has barely started to live. He is yet to bed a woman, to fight a real battle, to sire a child, to make true friends, even. What if he never will? And even if he survives, he will die sooner than most._ But Duncan knew he could not wait. They would make Alistair take his vows, or worse.

When had he decided? Duncan wasn't certain. He only knew that the novice had displayed courage, skill, modesty and grace in battle. Duncan knew what had to be done. If only the knowledge of it didn't weigh so heavy on his heart.

Winner of the final match and the tournament was Ser Ophelia.

Winter days were short in Ferelden, and the overcast sky was already starting to assume a darker hue when the winners were called to stand before the gallery of honor. Great torches had been lighted and were held by guards left and right. The Grand Cleric stood up and lifted Queen Anora's shield in her hands. The three winners were covered in heavy red cloaks with the arling's heraldic symbol, a tower on a cliff, emblazoned on the back.

Around them, the snowfall was getting thicker. Wind carried delicious smells from the feast site. Everyone was eager for the formalities to end, including Knight-Commander Glavin's representative, who perhaps out of sheer hunger committed a fateful blunder.

"At the third place, Alistair of the templars – ah -- representing Duncan, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden!"

Not noticing his mistake, the crowd hollered and stomped their feet. But the Grand Cleric nailed the unlucky official with a withering gaze.

"This man does not represent the templars," she said. "Nor will he ever do so."

The cheering gradually degenerated into a puzzled drone. All eyes turned toward the Grand Cleric, who now lowered the shield and pointed a finger at Alistair.

Now it comes, Duncan thought. She has had the whole day to brew her revenge, and this is it.

"I renounce Alistair's position as a templar-in-training. By conceding to this act of insubordination, he has gone against the will of the order, and is not fit to be initiated. This man is no longer with the order. He is cast out in shame and will never become a templar."

A shocked silence fell across the listeners. Alistair stood transfixed where he was, staring at the Grand Cleric with no expression at all.

Being cast out – after such a disgrace, there was no honorable order of warriors that would take Alistair in. He would be forced to become a mercenary, or worse.

The Knight-Commander's representative made no attempt to continue. Ser Kalvin and Ser Ophelia stood staring like everyone else.

Only Arl Eamon was not left speechless. "Outrageous!" he shouted and pushed himself to his feet, shaking with fury. "Utterly... outrageous! I shall take this matter to Cailan! You old conceited fool, I will have _you_ thrown out of the order!"

"That will not be necessary," Duncan said.

"Of course it will be necessary! Alistair is – he is --"

"Eamon," Bann Teagan said, with a warning in his voice. Again Duncan knew something was not as it should. His instinct hammered at the back of his head – wrong, wrong, wrong, it was all but shouting to him -- and yet another voice there was saying that he had rarely been more right.

"He grew up in my household! I gave him to the Chantry to be raised, to become a good man, not dishonored by such –!" The Arl turned toward his friend. "Duncan! I hold you personally responsible for this! Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Duncan said.

All eyes turned toward the Warden-Commander.

"Well?"

Duncan looked at Alistair and nodded. He saw the novice's eyes widen as realization started to dawn in them. Then he turned back toward the gallery of honor.

"I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription and remove Alistair into my custody. By the power bestowed on me by King Maric, I shall make him a Grey Warden. And may the prophet look kindly on us all, for an Archdemon has risen in the West, and a Blight is coming."

* * *

_That's it for today, and probably for a few days more as I have a nine to five job.  
_

_I don't know where this Ser Ophelia character came from, but I like her, and I have a small role for her in the story later on._

_If you like the story, please leave a comment! I don't know if I already said this, but this is my first fanfic in something like ten years.  
_


	5. Chapter 3a

_This turned out to be a rather slow chapter... not much happens, story-wise. But there's discussion! And a secret from the past is revealed. And, the second part of this chapter is going to feature Alistair's butt._

* * *

It might have been easier for them, had Alistair not smiled quite so much at everything and everyone. Including the heavily armored, no-nonsense guards who escorted them into the Grand Cleric's guest chambers at the Redcliffe chantry.

For the next quarter of an hour or so, Duncan had an opportunity to practice his patience. For someone who had just thrown Alistair out of the templar establishment, the Grand Cleric was remarkably reluctant to let him go.

"Let me tell you right here and now, Commander, that invoking the Right of Conscription on one of my most gifted novices is not going to win me to your cause. Your order is nothing but a disordered pack of filthy misfits who should be immediately subjected to templar control and King's justice. I won't even begin about the criminals and traitors and... filthy apostates you harbor in your midst. If I or any of my associates in the court had a say in this matter, your whole... whole... rabble would be executed at sight!"

One of your most gifted novices, is he, now? Duncan thought. But he kept his thoughts to himself – something he had grown quite good at, lately.

The silence was slightly spoiled, however, when Alistair spoke up from his left.

"May I suggest... 'filthy' rabble? Your grace."

The Grand Cleric shot her gaze toward Alistair. "Silence, fool! By the Maker, I should have had you whipped when I had the chance! I mean... whipped again!"

Duncan cast a warning look to his left. The man there shrugged apologetically. "She does seem to fancy the word."

Once again, Duncan wondered what had happened to Alistair. He had thought the novice a bit serious, at times even morose. And now the man just couldn't stop grinning, not even to save himself from getting jailed, or worse.

Duncan recalled the stunned silence and horrified looks after he had invoked the Right of Conscription, and then, looking at his recruit -- what exactly had he expected, the Warden did not know, but it had not been the wide smile he saw.

"Duncan, you don't know what you've done!" Arl Eamon had cried, and it seemed like he would have said more, but then the guards had been there, and the Warden and his recruit had been escorted away from the tourney field. And all the while Alistair had smiled, not saying anything, just looking like a man saved from certain death.

The Grand Cleric drew a long breath and seemed to finally come to an unpleasant conclusion about her inner turmoil.

"You know all I said, commander. But you also know that, for now, you have the ear of King Cailan. You are lucky, very lucky indeed for Maric's misguided favor, and for his son's boyish admiration. Maker help me, but I would not allow this blasphemy go unpunished otherwise. Because of the King, however, I understand there is nothing more I can do."

"Indeed, your grace," Duncan said, his voice level and deep. "The Right of Conscription has no exceptions."

"So, let us end this. I would prefer for you and your... conscript to leave immediately. I shall head for the monastery this evening, and when I arrive, I do not expect to find you there."

"Yes, your grace."

Something apparently bothered Alistair, since for a second, he almost stopped grinning. "But what about --"

"Not now, Alistair."

"But --"

Duncan gave the younger man what he hoped was a suitably strict look. It seemed to work, for Alistair developed a sudden interest in the wall hangings. He rather reminded Duncan of a happily boiling kettle that had just had its lid put on.

"We will leave immediately, your grace," Duncan said and bowed to the Grand Cleric.

The old matron turned her forbidding, if somewhat hunched back on them, and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. A heavily armored guard opened the door for them, and the second they were out, it slammed shut behind them like holy judgment.

As they started down the frosty, dim stone corridor, Duncan noticed that Alistair kept stealing glances his way. "Permission to speak, commander?" the young man said finally, when they were approaching the stairs to the main hall.

A much younger Duncan might have rolled his eyes. "No need to be so formal, Alistair. We are just dozen men -- hardly an army. Duncan will suffice."

"Duncan." The younger man pronounced his name very carefully, as if tasting it in his mouth. "Well, what I wanted to say was that I did not expect to be travelling. Actually, I walked to the village this morning wearing just what I have on. Isn't that a problem? I mean, you don't want me tottering about Ferelden wearing my armor everywhere, do you? It would be... quite foolish. Not that I need help with that, but --"

"Do you have anything at the monastery that you can't leave behind?"

"Other than the cheese and maids old enough to be my grandmother? No, I don't think so." Duncan could hear from Alistair's voice that he was grinning again. _So much for the lid over the kettle, I suppose. _He sensed a conversation waiting somewhere down the line. But now was not the time. Perhaps part of Alistair's reaction was just exhaustion and hunger.

"I have acquired some clothing for you. They are with my other possessions back at the tavern. We'll sleep in my lodgings tonight and start on the road come first light."

"Oh." Alistair took in the meaning of his words. "So... it is as the Grand Cleric said. You were planning for this all along."

"While my final decision was made today, it was not a spur of a moment thing."

"Well, in that case you could have --" Alistair did not finish.

"What, Alistair?"_ Tell you that I might make you a Warden, but that then again, I might not?_

"Nothing," Alistair said. "I suppose everything went well, in the end. I rather thought that the Grand Cleric was going to have us arrested, or have a fit, or both. Instead, I was promoted from 'that blasphemous rascal in need of a sound whipping, again' to 'one of the most gifted Templar novices' in a heartbeat. That's not bad, don't you think?"

Duncan looked at the recruit questioningly from the corner of his eye. Alistair's eyes glittered in the sparse light of the few torches that flickered in the great stone hall around them.

They were now walking through the chantry's nave. Faint flapping sounds and scratching of tiny feet gave evidence of drowsy birds moving in the frigid darkness far above. Another guard cracked the massive oak doors open for them, and they passed into the snow-laden village square beyond.

Redcliffe seemed deserted; presumably everyone was still at the feast site. Only a few lights glimmered in the tiny windows, most of which had been shuttered against the cold. Sharing a few minutes of of silence, Duncan and Alistair climbed up the steep, icy, windy slope that led out of the village proper, and headed for Redcliffe's only tavern. It stood on a small hill overlooking the winding path to Redcliffe castle. At the door, they knocked snow off their boots and stepped in.

It was not as deserted in the tavern as it had been out, but obviously most travellers were still at the feast. They went upstairs first, to change out of their armor. The second-hand winter leathers Duncan had bought for Alistair fitted as well as could be expected -- loosely around the waist and snugly at the shoulder. But they were serviceable, warm and clean, and fortunately big enough.

After Alistair had buckled a belt around his doublet and stuck his breeches into the tall fur-lined boots, they returned to the common room.

A red-haired waitress, going by the name of Bella, directed them to a table near the fireplace and took their orders. Duncan could see her eyeing Alistair, but the young warrior appeared oblivious to her smiles. Soon they had two tankards of strong, pale Fereldan bitter in front of them. The foaming brew smelled strongly of hops and whatever else these godforsaken people put in their drink.

Duncan sipped from his tankard, not particularly savoring the familiar flavor of what he imagined horsepiss might taste like. Alistair, however, half emptied his container at once. He put it down with a heavy thud, wiped beer froth from his upper lip and smiled blissfully. The way these Fereldans took to their nasty drink, Duncan still could not fathom.

Well, at least the tavern was warm enough to be called tepid, what with the huge fireplace crackling merrily next to them. Duncan had gotten so used to being cold that he no longer even thought about it before he occasionally stopped shivering. The blasted Fereldan winter never seemed to leave him completely, not before spring was far enough for the first signs of green to appear. Before that, any warmth just reminded his body how cold it was otherwise.

Alistair, however, was as oblivious to the cold as any native of this southern land. Sure enough he was soon sweating near the heat of the fire, and removed his doublet and sat at the table in his shirtsleeves. The warmth was obviously affecting him in other ways, too, for after downing the rest of his beer, he started to lean against the table, and soon looked like he might fall asleep before their food had even arrived.

Maybe it was better to talk, in order for the lad to get some nourisment in him before he passed out. They hadn't had much chance to talk after their meeting in the scriptorium three days ago; Alistair had had his studies and training, and Duncan had had to travel back to Redcliffe to prepare for the tournament.

"So, Alistair. What do you know of the Grey Wardens?"

Startled by the sudden question, the recruit sat up and rubbed his eyes. His valiant effort at a reply was interrupted by mighty yawns. "I know that you're an order of great warriors.... and that you protect Thedas from... darkspawn. And I know you were exiled from Ferelden two hundred years ago... but that King Maric allowed you to return. And that you once rode griffins. I like that part. And... and that's about it. All _I_ know, anyhow."

"You know more than most Fereldans do, these days," Duncan said. "Most of them don't even believe that Blights can happen any more. They say we have no purpose here, except as the little finger of the Orlesian empire."

"Fighting darkspawn sounds like a life with a purpose, to me."

"And a templar's isn't?"

At that, Alistair's hazel eyes lost some of their drowsiness. "Babysitting mages and occasionally butchering one or two..? No, I don't find that particularly purposeful. Would you?"

Duncan was saved from having to answer by the returning Bella, who carried two bowls of steaming chowder. Bread, cheese, mashed beans and more beer followed. The fare was simple but tasty, and despite his exhaustion, Alistair attacked it with the same appreciation Duncan had seem him give his food before.

"So... which way will be travelling tomorrow?" Alistair asked in between mouthfuls of chowder and bread and ale.

"The current camp is located east, near Lothering. We are staying at an old abandoned stone fortress called Fort Carrall. We are just twelve men, and two recruits, or three now that you are included."

"So I'm not the only recruit. Who are the others?"

"A young elf -- she's a mage from Denerim -- and a slightly older man, who is a warrior from Lothering."

"A mage?" obviously that piqued Alistair's interest. "Ah, yes, I remember the Grand Cleric mentioning mages in your ranks."

Duncan had wondered how Alistair's training as a templar -- a mage hunter -- would affect his opinion on magic users. Now was probably as good a time as any to ask.

"Only two of us are mages. We desperately need more, for they are invaluable in our fight against the darkspawn. Does that bother you?"

Alistair shrugged. "Should it?"

"What if I tell you that both of these mages are apostates, and that I found them when they were in hiding from the Chantry?"

Alistair picked up more bread, then paused as he thought for a second. "If you're trying to ask me whether I'll snap and go on a mage killing rampage as soon as the first robe-wearing poor bastard crosses my path – the answer is no. I wasn't... I mean, I haven't even _met_ an apostate in my entire life, why should I hate them? To tell you the truth, I wasn't particularly looking forward to that part of being a templar. I have only ever attended one harrowing as a part of my training, and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. The demon took her over, and we had to put her down." Alistair's brow furrowed. He seemed lost in a very unpleasant memory for a moment. Then he shook himself back into the present and scooped a respectable mountain of chowder from the bowl with his bread. "That is all I can really say about what I think of mages," he said and took a big chunk out of the chowder-laden bread. How he managed not to spill the food all over himself was a mystery.

Duncan had already eaten his full. He leaned back against the wall and shook his head when Bella came asking if he wanted more beer. He stroked his beard, thinking. "Some recruits initially have a hard time accepting the fact that we refuse no one who is competent and has the... aptitude... to become a Grey Warden," he said eventually. "We have two men whose families are in a centuries-long feud with each other. It was difficult for them, at first, but they came around. In Orlais, where our order numbers in the hundreds, such problems are usual. But you have to understand that once you become a Warden, you leave everything from your past life behind. Including what you hate... or love."

"Well, fortunately I don't have much of either," Alistair muttered. Duncan noticed for the first time that his speech slurred a bit. "While I admit I didn't particularly like the chantry, I didn't waste time hating anything there, either. And love? Hardly. Well, except for the cheese. But I already mentioned the cheese, didn't I? I must stop before you realise I'm a maniac who only thinks of cheese."

"You may be surprised by what turns out to be important, once you are parted from it."

Alistair seemed doubtful, then changed the subject. "Duncan... You mentioned an... aptitude. What is it? I suppose I have it, since I'm now, well, going to be one of you fellows."

All of a sudden, Duncan felt ill.

Alistair was so eager and so alive, sitting there in front of his food, tired from the exertions of the day, brimming with expectation and curiosity. But they were all like that, weren't they -- hungry for life -- hungry to fight and to prove themselves however they could, whether desperate or proud. Why did it now feel worse than usual, to be the only one present to know what lay ahead?

_Another man, in another life. A man laughing like this one, talking in animated Orlesian, accepting everything, keeping nothing in._

The memory still stung like a knife.

For the love of Andraste, why did it still hurt? Time should heal, but it didn't seem to heal him. Instead, his wound just festered. Perhaps it was the taint growing stronger inside his mind? Perhaps it would eventually twist all his memories into something ugly and painful?

And why remember now? Yes, Alistair was an attractive person – but Duncan had travelled widely and met many attractive men and women. He was used to pushing such observations aside.

"It is.. hard to explain, this... aptitude. You will find out soon enough." The distorted truth lay like ash in the Warden's mouth. But Alistair did not seem to suspect anything. He just nodded and returned to the remainders of his food.

They continued to talk for some time, about the day's events mostly. Alistair was getting happily tipsy, now. More people were starting to arrive, smelling of winter, bonfires and feast food, and soon the tavern's common room was buzzing with travellers who settled down for a drink or ten. Many recognized the Warden and his recruit and offered to buy them drinks or join their table, but Duncan politely turned down all invitations.

After Alistair had finished his third tankard of ale, he started to look a bit unsteady. "I think... I think this beer is a bit stronger than I'm used to," he said. "I might be... drunk. Am I?" He frowned and looked around. "How does one tell? Hey, where'd all these people come from?"

"We should head back to the room," Duncan said. "We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"I... I don't think I can make it," Alistair said. Duncan raised his eyebrows as the recruit slumped forward until his forehead was leaning against the table.

"Not much of a drinker, I see." He stood up. "Very well. I should probably let you enjoy your sleep while you still can."

A happy cheering rose from among the inebriated patrons as the two men walked toward the stairs, Alistair with his arm around Duncan's shoulders for support.

After stumbling into the room, Duncan helped the recruit to bed – their only bed, since even in finer Fereldan inns it was customary for several guests to sleep in the same bunk. Alistair was sleeping almost before his head hit the mattress. Duncan pulled off the younger man's boots and covered him with two blankets from a nearby chest. He had made a fire in the hearth when they arrived, but the room still felt cool and humid to him.

The clamor downstairs was getting loud, now. Duncan tended to the fire, removed his own boots and sat on the bed. He did not feel sleepy, but he was so cold that he wrapped himself in the remaining three blankets anyway and lay down on his side of the mattress, listening to the raucous laughter and cries from below.

He feared he had yet another sleepless night ahead of him. But it had nothing to do with the drunken noises.

In the half darkness of the nondescript tavern room, Duncan worried. He worried about his fellow Wardens in Fort Carrall. He worried about King Cailan's plans, whatever they were. He worried about the great forces working against them in this land, and about the familiar, sickly hum and click in the back of his mind. It was getting stronger, that hum, sometimes even strong enough to notice by day. It reminded him of what he had felt all those years ago in the Deep Roads, of the nauseating drone of darkspawn corruption all around them in the eternal darkness. And remembering the Deep Roads made him think of friends long gone, of forgotten faces, and voices he would never hear again.

Slowly Duncan became aware of the other man's presence next to him. Alistair was large, and still, and very warm. For a moment Duncan wondered if the young warrior was running a fever. Then he realised that Alistair was just naturally very warm. Duncan had never heard him complain about the cold. He had seemed quite oblivious to the freezing wind and snow. Even without touching, Duncan could feel his warmth. It was like a small furnace hidden somewhere there, inside him.

Alistair was breathing heavily, but thank the Maker, he did not snore. In fact, listening to him was almost... soothing. Duncan was used to people tossing about in their sleep and crying when yet another bad dream startled them awake. But the young warrior slept like a child. It was hard to worry when someone was resting so peacefully nearby.

Duncan closed his eyes and slept until the morning without dreams.


	6. Chapter 3b

_2010/02/03: edited a bit because I found out more about horses and their rarity in Ferelden. They're basically used just by the King's men and nobles. But Grey Wardens were the King's favorites, and Duncan was Orlesian, so I have decided to keep the horses here._

_Also, I found out that I've used the word 'poultice' wrong. In the game, poultice is a sweeping term for injury kits and potions, but I'd used it synonymously with potion which is wrong. Fixed now. Readers are far took kind, to not mention such things._

* * *

Duncan could only envy the resiliency of youth, for Alistair did not seem tired or sore the morning after. Quite the opposite, in fact.

When they left the now silent tavern, the sun was still gathering courage to breach the horizon. They waited in the blue twilight of the yard, their breath billowing in the cold morning air. They had donned their armor, thick surcoats and warm winter cloaks for the journey. Duncan had his sabre and dagger sheathed across his back, Alistair carried his shield and a longsword given to him by the Warden.

A stable boy brought Duncan's two horses; his own chestnut gelding and a grey mare he had kept along in hopes of finding someone to ride it. They weren't fine Orlesians; they were thick haired, thick skulled beasts who could survive for days on end with frozen grass they digged from beneath the snow. Still, they were rare and expensive creatures in Ferelden, and Alistair's eyes widened as he understood that the grey mare was now his.

Duncan asked whether Alistair knew his way around horses, expecting that an arl's son – if in fact Alistair was such – might even have some experience about them. "Better than most around here, I suppose, since I slept most of my childhood in the castle stables," the recruit replied. "Eamon had a few horses and they were magnificent. There was this stallion from Orlais that was finer than anything I've seen, a wedding present from the Arlessa's father..."

"You slept in the stables?" Duncan interrupted in surprise. That was definitely not a detail he would have expected from a possible arl's son, however illegitimate. It did not sit well with his assessment of Eamon.

"Yep." Alistair took the offered saddle and threw it across the mare's back. "So, I grew up with horses. The stable master even taught me to ride a little. She was a tough old bird, but apparently she liked me, so she did it, even though she shouldn't have. Anyway, templars don't have much use for horsemanship. Since Ferelden doesn't have war horses, the insistence on plate mail's a bit of an issue. So, as you probably know, templars are mostly just carted from one place to another. Very undignified."

Alistair did seem to remember something about saddling and riding a horse, and it didn't take long before the two men were on their way. Soon the village disappeared behind the red cliffs that had given it its name. Redcliffe Castle peeked in and out of view for quite much longer. Duncan wondered what Alistair thought now that he was leaving the only place he had ever known; but the young warrior did not seem to look back much, and was obviously more interested in what lay ahead.

Wind had gathered thick drifts of dry snow on the winding path, but the horses trudged through without complaint, even laden with bags and armored men as they were. Before them, a hazy, white sun finally appeared from behind the ridges. The day promised to be more beautiful than the one before, but unfortunately also very cold.

The road climbed to snake between the cragged hills that rose west of Lake Calenhad. Occasionally it emerged from the maw of stone to reveal breathtaking views. On their left, the great lake reached as far as the eye could see beneath its cover of ice and snow; somewhere far away, the ice gave way to an expanse of black water that cast its forbidding shadow on the horizon. On their right loomed the Frostback Mountains, their majestic blue and white peaks reaching toward the sky like Maker's fingertips.

Winter was usually a good time to travel in Ferelden; in spring the roads were turned to mud before summer dried them up, and in autumn rains often did the same. But now there was just too much snow, and the going was slow. The Warden stared thoughtfully at Alistair's back in front of him. They were taking turns to break a path through the snow, and it was Duncan's turn to ride in the tracks.

Duncan did not usually inquire too much into the past lives of his recruits. Better not to learn to know them too well, at least before the Joining. Yet, against his better judgment, he found himself asking questions now.

"So, Alistair. You were brought up by Arl Eamon?"

"Oh, did I say that? I meant that I was brought up by dogs. Giant, flying, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels --"

Duncan sighed. "Alistair..."

The recruit cleared his throat. "Right. Arl Eamon. My mother was a serving girl at the castle, but she died when I was very young. I would have been sold to servitude after that, but the arl felt sorry for me and took me in. I slept in the stables like I said, practiced swordplay with the other boys, learned to read and write. I didn't even go hungry too often. It was better than what most orphans get."

"But surely the arl had a reason for taking you in."

Alistair looked at the Warden over his shoulder. "So... you've heard the rumors, I suppose?"

Duncan nodded.

"I suggest you don't believe them."

"But they do not seem far-fetched."

Alistair shook his head. It was obvious he did not like to talk of the matter, but hated to leave it lying open, either. "Arl Eamon was not my father. My father was a traveller who took a fancy to my mother and then left her alone with two children. He wasn't interested in me. He died many years ago."

"How do you know?"

"Arl Eamon told me."

Duncan knew the recruit wasn't telling him everything. But what did he hide? Duncan would find out later.

"You mentioned... two children. There were two of you?"

"I have a half-sister, her name's Goldanna. She lives somewhere in Denerim. We've never met but I hope to see her some day."

"And how did you end up being sent to the chantry?"

Alistair explained about Arlessa Isolde, then, how after marrying the arl and giving birth to his son she had persuaded him to send Alistair away. Duncan had never particularly liked Isolde, who, while certainly pretty and talkative, seemed like a typical example of Orlesian nobility; as likely to stab you in the back as kiss you on the cheek. The same sort of people he had once happily robbed blind while working the streets of Val Royeaux, long ago. While giving her husband's illegitimate son a future as a templar could hardly be considered unfair or harsh, Duncan was certain that Isolde had not acted out of kindness. She had caught two mice in one trap; she had likely been considered generous for the opportunity she had bestowed on her husband's by-blow, and at the same time, she had secured her own son as the sole heir of the arling.

The talk turned to Alistair's training in the chantry. Unsurprisingly, he made light of it and concentrated on the aspects he had enjoyed, like disciplining his mind to wield the magic-countering abilities of the templars, and the occasional pillow-fight with other novices. But despite Alistair's cheerful voice, Duncan sensed that for a very long time, he had been desperately unhappy. More than anything else, that probably explained his enthusiasm at joining an order he knew very little of, and the dramatic change that had occurred in him after the conscription.

The Warden-Commander had recruited many men and women during his time as a senior of the order. Their reactions of his conscripts had varied. Some of them had been miserable for the life they had to leave behind. Others had been melancholy, but determined to make the best of it. Most had been more or less afraid of the unknown ahead; perhaps the most fortunate ones had felt relieved to be spared of an even darker fate.

None, absolutely none had been... giddy. Not before now.

He did not know what to think of it. Would the Joining land too hard on such a man? Would it crush him, make him bitter and vengeful, a burden to the order? Duncan had seen it happen, back in Orlais. Or would Alistair's optimism aid him instead, help him overcome the Joining and survive the mental and physical torment ahead? Duncan could only guess.

As the day progressed, the Warden had to admit that his estimate on how long it would take to reach Lothering had been overly hopeful. On a good weather they would have arrived in Fort Carrall after four to five days; but as the horses slowly waded through snow that at places reached their riders' boots, Duncan understood that it would now easily take a week. They wouldn't be able to sleep at an inn every night, either, for their pace wasn't nearly fast enough for them to reach the usual waypoints.

The day turned out to be uneventful. They dismounted once to eat, but other than that, they travelled without stopping. Occasional gusts of wind threw billows of snow across their path, but otherwise the weather remained fine. Their conversation slowly dwindled, until it stopped entirely. Alistair seemed to get more and more lost in thought. Occasionally Duncan was certain that something bothered him, but he did not volunteer to talk of it, and Duncan did not ask.

Evening came, eventually, pushing the tiny, weak sun behind the mountains. The long, blue winter twilight fell, bringing with it a bitter cold, and still they were surrounded by rock and snow.

Duncan found a sheltered spot with some spruce trees and, with the help of his now rather silent recruit, set to building a lean-to for the night. After they were done, Alistair examined the open structure with great suspicion. It was half buried in snow from three sides, built of interlaced branches of spruce and proofed with more snow, and had a bottom made of yet more branches and covered with felt blankets.

"Surely that must be a cold place to sleep," he mused.

Duncan was hewing an axe into a dead birch trunk, preparing it for firewood. "This is something I learned from the Chasind," he explained. "I can't say it's anything close tor warm by my standards, but it will get us through the night better than any tent."

And sure enough, after the fire was going and they had settled in, the lean-to got quite warm. They ate dried meat and hardtack and drank water melted from snow, removed what armor they could and wrapped up in their cloaks and blankets to get some rest.

The lean-to was by no means large, and they had to practically sleep in each other's lap. This time, Alistair did not fall asleep so easily. He kept turning about and sighing.

"Is something the matter?" Duncan asked at last. "Are you cold?"

"Nah, it's warm enough," the younger man muttered. "I'm fine."

He lay still for a moment, and then moved again, nudging Duncan in the back with his elbow.

"I insist. Tell me what's wrong," Duncan said.

Alistair groaned. "It's just that... Well... This is sort of embarrassing. But all that riding, you see, I'm not exactly used to it. And with my arm a bit sore, and the bruises... It's just hard to find a position that doesn't hurt. Sorry. I'll try not to bother you so much."

The Warden suddenly understood that the reason the recruit had grown silent during the day was that he had been in actual physical pain. He propped himself up on his elbow and turned to look at Alistair, who blushed under his scrutiny.

"Of all the... Why didn't you say anything? We could have stopped to rest!"

"I suppose we should have," Alistair said sadly and winced. "Because I think I have blisters in places I don't want to think about. And... oww... some of them might be bleeding."

"You're not going to be able to ride tomorrow at all!" Duncan rubbed his forehead in exasperation. "I have some potions in my bag. You need to take one."

"What?" Alistairs stopped fidgeting for a moment. "I need a potion because I have saddle blisters? No way!"

"Well, either that, or you ride tomorrow with those blisters tearing and bleeding all over! We might even have to fight. There are bandits on these roads, and worse. Your choice."

"Oh." Alistair obviously hadn't thought of the next day. "Maybe... Maybe I should take it, then."

Duncan abandoned the relative warmth of his blankets to rummage through a bag of his, and returned with a tiny glass vial swimming with red liquid. Looking like he wanted nothing more than to crawl under a rock and die, Alistair emptied it and settled back down.

"Oh, Maker," he sighed. "I didn't realise how much it hurt before now."

Duncan gritted his teeth. "By Andraste... You need to tell your companions of such things! It is commendable that you are willing to tolerate pain, but hiding injury for the sake of misguided pride is not going to make you useful to anyone!"

"I... I suppose you're right. Sorry."

Duncan shook his head and once again, buried himself in the pitifully inadequate warmth of his cloak and blankets. He had the spot closer to the fire, and still he was shivering. Well, at least it smelled nicer than in the tavern, what with the birch wood smoke from the fire, and the spruce branches above and beneath.

A moment later, he felt a tremor from Alistair's side. Then strange, strangled sounds and snorts. It took Duncan a while to understand that the recruit was trying very hard not to laugh.

"All right. What is so amusing?"

Alistair wheezed and giggled. "I just can't believe... that the first healing potion I ever took... was because I had a sore ass."

Duncan's mouth twitched. "Well, I suppose it _is_ funny."

Alistair laughed until he had tears in his eyes. "Please, don't tell any of the other Grey Wardens."

"You secret's safe with me."

And with that, they both finally fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 4a

_A/N: After rereading this story today, I started to feel really sad about its unfinished state. So, I checked my notes, and here is... Chapter 4a. It's 1.5 years since I last played the game, please tell me if you notice anything strange._

_Maybe I'll even get this story finished one day. Don't hold your breath for quick updates, though. I'm still mostly working on Mage & Wolf..._

* * *

Duncan pulled his horse to a halt. His saber left its scabbard with an evil hiss.

"Darkspawn," he said.

Alistair stopped in the Warden's tracks and looked around, bewildered.

The serene, snowy landscape seemed as tranquil and deserted as ever. Dark snow-laden pines and spruce thrust out of a thin layer of snow, thinned by winds and the tree cover. To the left of the road, the ground fell steeply toward Lake Calenhad, and to the right it undulated in craggy hills toward the mountains, which for the past two days had very slowly become more and more distant.

Alistair had no idea what darkspawn were supposed to look like, but right now nothing he saw even remotely resembled a charging enemy. Yet Duncan was already preparing for battle – dismounting and unclasping his cloak, which fell to the ground and revealed the beautifully quilted blue and gray tabard he now wore over his leather armor, with the Warden symbol emblazoned in the back. He had donned the cloth of his order the morning after their first night outdoors. Apparently he'd wanted to avoid drawing attention to his Warden status in Redcliffe, but now preferred the protection it afforded from bandits and wilders.

"Wait here," Duncan said and drew his dar'misu, now standing with weapons in both hands. "They aren't near enough to see us, yet. So I may be able to avoid detection, if I move fast. You - stay here. And whatever happens, for Maker's sake, don't try to fight!"

"What?" Alistair had removed his cloak and dismounted as well. Now he lowered his hands from his sword and shield. "Excuse me?"

"Trust me." Duncan started to lope toward a cluster of trees and bushes. "I can handle this. _Don't fight!_ Escape if you must – your life is worth more than that of those animals!"

"Oh, great," Alistair moaned when Duncan had disappeared out of sight. "Let's just stand here like pigs ready for slaughter, then, shall we? How about a game of guards and thugs while we're at it?"

But he grabbed the reins and tied their horses to a nearby tree as securely as he could, and kept glancing to where Duncan had gone.

The Warden had disappeared completely. No sound or shadow revealed his hiding place. Actually... it was rather unnerving. Hard to believe he was still somewhere around_._ How could anyone just disappear like that in broad daylight?

For a moment, all was eerily quiet. Alistair suddenly started to suspect that he'd been left behind as bait.

_Great. Just... great._

"Duncan... I hope you know what you're doing," he whispered.

Then the horses started to whinny. And not long after, he could hear them, too.

It was a horrifying, deep grumble at first. Half laughter, half growl - a feral, inhuman sound that went straight into his spine.

A dark movement, then, there... and another. Black, vaguely human-like shapes flitted into his vision and out, ugly like tears in Veil against the snow. At first, it was hard to believe he'd really seen them. But there they were... And now the horses were starting to get really anxious.

There were ten of them. No, a dozen. Creeping toward him now from behind rocks and trees, distorted and terrible, alive with that horrifying, monstrous cackle. One of them roared, a bloodthirsty sound of expectation for what must be an easy victory over a single traveler.

The horses screamed and started to thrash against their reins.

He couldn't help it. He drew his sword and slung his shield onto his left arm. The feeling of protection they lent him felt meager against so many enemies.

"Maker preserve us," he whispered. He'd never felt so unprepared for anything in his life.

The darkspawn didn't seem to care for tactics. They advanced in a clustered row, most of them small, probably not reaching to his shoulder even - but there were four larger ones, huge hulking warrior-like creatures with horrible black saw-like swords and mangled maces. And they moved more fluidly than he would have expected, not like something risen from dead – which was what they most closely resembled – but like beasts, with instinct born out of necessity.

There were barely thirty paces between him and them, now. Alistair threw a look at the panicking horses, but knew there was nothing he could do for them.

"Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide..." Alistair started to pray under his breath. He had never been so terrified. Not even in the Harrowing, when the mage girl had risen from the floor like lifted by an invisible great hand, and turned, and her face had been... different...

And then he saw it, the barest of movements behind the approaching darkspawn. The shadow of a blue-gray figure behind their backs, moving almost too fast to seem human.

The flash of silverite - and four of the nearest darkspawn screamed and fell. They just fell, twitching, and did not rise again.

His breath hitched and he watched in amazement as Duncan spun and downed two other darkspawn with beautiful, quick thrusts of his sword and dagger. The creatures were just starting to realize what was happening. They turned, roaring, but not in time to stop him before he took a step and cut down one of the big ones with an ugly slash to the back of its legs, severing tendons it needed to walk. It toppled with a terrifying howl and crashed its horned head against a rock.

Unbelievably, the darkspawn had already been reduced from a dozen to five. And it had taken less time than Alistair needed to properly ready his weapon and shield. Duncan was good. Probably better than Ser Ophelia, who was the best Alistair had ever seen. But his style of fighting would have been frowned upon in the tournament. Alistair realized there must be poison on his blades – he could hear it in the way the darkspawn screamed when the silverite connected with their flesh, and see it in how they convulsed on the ground and then fell silent and still far too fast.

The five darkspawn left – two big and three small ones – hissed at Duncan, who crouched in front of them, his bloodied weapons ready, black spatters of blood now marring his blue-gray tabard and the long surcoat underneath.

He did not seem afraid. And the darkspawn must have seen it, as well – but they did not retreat. Four of them charged in unison toward the Warden.

One of the big ones turned and headed straight for Alistair.

"Oh, man..."

Duncan had told him not to fight. But what the hell was he supposed to do? Jump in the frozen lake? Play dead? The monster gave a horrifying war cry as it charged toward him, armor chiming and rattling, brandishing a huge, crooked, black mace above its head. He stood now close enough to perceive details of its ugly piecemeal armor, made of materials too tarnished to recognize, and the revolting face inside its horned helmet – its blackened flesh looked like it had been melted into the vaguely human-like skull.

There was no time to think, no time to look how Duncan was doing against the four that had chosen to fight him. Heart hammering in his chest, Alistair raised his shield to block a huge swing of the heavy, sharpened mace. Another swing, and another – his shield blocked them all, but the swings were heavy enough to crash waves of pain through his arm, and he knew he couldn't keep it up for long.

He yelled and charged himself, bashing into the creature with all his strength, trying to unbalance it, but it was far larger than any opponent he was used to, and just took a few steps back and roared in annoyance.

Still, it was not charging any more.

For a moment it just stared at him with its monstrous red-shot eyes. Spittle flew from its mouth as it stood its ground and snorted out great heaving breaths. Big and ugly as hell, it was, but... not invincible.

Years of training seemed to suddenly crystallize. Alistair was not lost, he knew what to do. He did not have to think, he just knew. When the creature raised its mace to attack again, he had his shield ready, blocked the weapon and, without giving a second thought to it, sliced his sword through the darkspawn's midsection. It bellowed in pain and outrage and tried to swing at him, but he glanced the mace aside with his shield and thrust his blade straight through the creature's tattered armor into its chest.

The creature grunted, staggered and dropped its weapon. Alistair shuddered from the weight now suspended on his sword. The darkspawn bared its blackened teeth in what was a terrifying simile of a smile. In horror Alistair tried not to stumble as it pushed forward, thrusting the sword through its own chest and out of its back, until the hilt met its armor.

It roared at him one last time, its broken teeth and stinking black mouth only inches away from his face. Not able to support its weight any more, he started to fall and, reluctant to let go of his sword, pulled the dying darkspawn on top of him. Blood was welling from its mouth, now, disgusting black ichor that splashed his chest and his face – and he crashed to the snow-laden ground, the darkspawn atop of him, convulsing.

And then it was dead.

Alistair heard his own breath wheeze in his lungs. Black blood still dripped from the darkspawn's mouth onto his shoulder, and the stink was almost unbearable. But life – such as it was – had disappeared from its eyes.

He was alive, and the darkspawn was dead. Relieved to the point of fainting, he drifted into a strange state of consciousness, not quite awake, but not unconscious, either, just marveling at being able to breathe.

After what seemed like an eternity and just a few seconds, the darkspawn's weight was pulled away from him. He stared at the light blue sky above, strangely numb. A horrible fear of being paralyzed struck him when he realized he could not feel anything.

"Alistair!" Someone leaned over him, grabbed his face in a firm, gloved hand. "Damn you lad, I told you not to fight!"

Alistair blinked. "D-Duncan?"

"Yes, who else? You have to get up, now!"

"I – I killed it," he wheezed.

"Yes, you did. Now move!"

It seemed almost impossible, but with Duncan's help he did, pushing himself up to sit, then to his feet. The world swayed around him.

"You have darkspawn blood all over you. It's poisonous. We need to get it off." Alistair had never heard Duncan's voice sound like it did now... strangely thin and strained. The Warden was already pulling him forward as he spoke. Alistair stumbled but tried to follow, finding to his surprise that his feet actually still worked.

There was the creek, now – and Duncan pushed him toward it and he knelt and removed his gauntlets. The water was freezing against his shaking hands and suddenly he felt everything again, the breath burning in his lungs, the dull pain in his shield arm, the small twinges and aches of being alive.

_Alive._

He washed his face and rinsed his mouth until his lips had turned blue and Duncan told him to stop. The Warden was sitting on a nearby rock, hand pressed to his forehead.

"You should have run," he said, obviously shaken. "Never question my orders, Alistair. Never! Do you understand how much trouble I've went through for your sake? You could have ruined it all!"

Alistair blinked and sat back on his heels. He dried his face in the sleeve of his surcoat as well as he could. Icy water was still running down his neck, but he was almost grateful for the the frigid shivers it sent through him. "Forgive me, Duncan."

The Warden-Commander looked away and was silent for a moment. "You're not very good at running away, are you, Alistair?"

"I – I suppose not. I'm sorry I let you down."

"You didn't let me down. Just... Look, next time, do as you're told!"

"Yes, Duncan."

Suddenly Alistair felt like he was eight again, being scolded for playing knights and robbers with Cailan, who had visited Redcliffe Castle with his father. The King's heir had been subjected to an icy stare by Maric, for running around with a servant's brat. Alistair, on the other hand, had received a sound trashing from the Arlessa, who had told him to stay in the stables until the King's visit was over. He'd been sent to sleep without supper, but however painfully hunger gnawed at his stomach, the memory of the Arlessa's cold words had been worse.

_I will see to it that the world forgets who you are, bastard._

And she had. For more than ten years he'd been buried in the chantry among other orphans, certain that his life would be wasted away tearing hapless children from their mothers' arms. Or even worse – locked away in the circle tower, growing prematurely old, perhaps going insane with seclusion... Being sometimes called upon to butcher a mage who did not pass his Harrowing, or burn away men's souls because they could not bring themselves to submit to rules he himself despised.

Duncan had saved him. The least he could do was obey. And even that, he'd failed.

He felt like crying.

Suddenly the Warden-Commander stood up. He seemed reluctant to meet the recruit's eyes.

"We can't stay here. Where one lot of darkspawn are encountered, there will soon be more. Come, Alistair... let us throw these corpses in the ravine, and be on our way."

The rest of the day was spent in an agonizing silence. Duncan pushed them hard toward Lothering, and before going to sleep that night, he meditated for a full hour, discouraging all questions.


End file.
